


Pulling the Threads

by Nidhoggr (orphan_account)



Category: Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword
Genre: Backstory, Implied Torture, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:52:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Nidhoggr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of Ghirahim drabbles. Based off of an RP with my girlfriend (and my personal headcanon), in which Ghirahim was created by Hylia before being stolen by Demise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Give Me That Horizon

Outside of the cool shade of the temple, the sun beats down against Ghirahim’s back. Heat rolls down his shoulders, strokes his spine through the thin fabric of his clothes, bleached glowing pearl in the light, then comes to rest in a coil around his waist. He takes a deep breath he doesn’t need, spreading his arms to invite the warmth to overtake him. The forest fills his lungs, earthy and thick, and he laughs, reveling in it, breathing in again.

Hylia stands as a tower beside him, her hair and wings billowing behind her like a great mass of clouds. She’s all blues and golds, a piece of the sun and sky just barely managing to contain this white spark of lightning from shooting across the forest -- Ghirahim’s eyes are locked on a gnarled tree, with branches sprawling higher than all the rest, and he’s about to snap his fingers to reach it before her hands latch onto his wrists. An indulgent smile graces her lips. “Patience, Ghirahim. Someday, the horizon will be yours to claim with your eyes.”

In the distance, that long, endless blue stretches beyond the trees and over mountains. It’s been days since he last saw the sky; Hylia’s lessons to prepare him for the hero allowed for precious little time to escape the temple’s dull stone walls. Now, back in the light he so craved, he feels his fingers twitching, itching, and he wrenches his hands away from her, exasperation unbidden.

It is Hylia’s turn to laugh. She interrupts his view ( _yet again_ , he thinks irritably) by gliding in front of him. Her hand floats down to his cheek, briefly pressing her cool palm against the diamond there, before moving down to his chin, tilting his head up to look at her. Hylia is so tall that Ghirahim has to arch his neck back a little more to face her properly, and the fact irks him more than usual, a grimace tugging down the edges of his mouth.

“How much longer?” He asks, the words jumbling together into one, too excited for pause.

She taps the thin point of his chin with her thumb. “Soon, my child.” She assures him. “Very soon.”


	2. Strength of Character

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghirahim is captured by Demise. This is the chapter to which most of the archive warnings apply, so tread carefully.

In your dreams, you are sixteen again, and Demise looms over you, huge and terrible. Scales and fire ripple across his massive form, and standing before him is like facing a furnace -- a lesser man would melt before him, but you are made of stronger steel than that. He is an intruder, and he needs to be dealt with. You know that you can bear the burn, and you glare at this stone behemoth, blue lightning crackling around your fingertips. You were made for this.

You hold up your hand, taking aim -- you say something -- it’s different each time, but it’s usually along the lines of, “get out before I kill you, or if you’re quick enough, maybe hurt you a little less” -- but you always remember the jagged cut of Demise’s mouth cracking upwards into an unsettling smile.

You never forget that smile. Demise had smiled the same way when, years later, in chains and with fire dancing at the soles of your feet, you shriek that you will never call this monster your “Master”.

“You will submit to me.” Demise promises as the fire sears up your legs, infernal and insidious and -- no, no, you will not scream -- “You have more character than the humans. Such pathetic creatures... Too weak to put up a fight without their goddess, let alone resist me. But you... You will be useful. It’s only a matter of time until you break.”

You raise your head, defiant, and spit in his face. _“Never.”_

The years after that are blurred in a haze of fire and smoke. You remember pain -- and you remember waiting. Where was Hylia, your creator, your mother... that day, so long ago, when you were sixteen and Demise loomed over you, huge and terrible, and you stood prepared to kill him, she had appeared to lead the demon away. Where was she now? Why had she not yet come to save you?

And where was the hero you were made for, the one meant to claim you -- your real master. He was supposed to come for you. Why were they taking so long?

You remember waiting, and waiting, and waiting...

They do not come. They never came, not even when black, evil magic kept you bound as Demise carved his mark into you, cracks spreading all along your body as he --

_it hurts_

\-- stabbing, aching pain, withdrawing for a moment only to come crashing back inside you, like a blade trying to break you open and take the sword you keep hidden from him --

_it hurts_

\-- clawing at your chest, reaching for your core, the diamond pulsing in his hand -- no no NO he can’t he can’t break you he can’t but _it hurts it hurts it hurts_

He doesn’t stop, promises he won’t, not until you call him “Master”. Again and again, that pain, stabbing and cracking another part of you each time, where are they please please someone help, but they never come, you’re alone and he won’t stop and you’re so, so tired.

_it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts_

You’re screaming and begging and finally, you say it, that damned word, “Master” -- and it’s over and as you fall, the pain relentlessly throbbing throughout your entire body, you feel the faintest glimmer of relief as he rips your sword from your chest.

You wake up sobbing. Your chest burns, and you instinctively press your hands on it, feeling for the gaping crevice you know isn’t there. This is how your dreams often end. You hate yourself for it; these days, you avoid sleeping so you don’t have to wake up like this, a weak, trembling mess. The fire still burns bright behind your eyes, but you blink it away, focusing on your own hands now unmarred by cracks. It was so long ago. There’s no need to cry now, no, not when you have a plan, instead of uselessly hoping for someone else to save you.

But sometimes you do sleep well, and the dream ends differently. When Demise leans over you, that sharp-edged smile spreading across his face, you break free from the chains and slit his throat.


	3. Red Riding Hood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ghirahim and Hylia's chosen hero have a secret relationship.

The evening air is thick and humid, the sky hanging heavy with big, furling gray clouds. Thunder swears on a storm, and Ghirahim is smiling by the time he cracks open Link’s window, dripping wet as he throws himself inside headfirst.

From his desk, Link jumps up, knocking over a bottle of ink in his haste. He doesn’t seem to notice as he approaches Ghirahim, not surprised, but his brows climb upwards in an expression something like relief.

“I almost thought you weren’t coming.” He says, shy. Ghirahim laughs, collecting his damp hair away from his face and his shoulder and wringing rainwater onto the wooden floor. Link watches, wide eyes firmly trained upon the wet cloth clinging to Ghirahim’s collarbone, and his tongue darts out to lick his lips as his voice slows, “I thought... he might have stopped you from coming.”

“Don’t be silly.” Ghirahim replies shortly. With a flick of his wrist, his hair slaps wetly against his back. “He doesn’t know. And even if he did, he can’t stop me from seeing you.”

Link licks his lips again, absently. “Can’t he?”

“He can’t.” In three long strides, Ghirahim closes the space between them, arms winding about Link’s shoulders and cheek nuzzling against his neck, soft if not quite warm. “You should know by now that I’m very persistent.” Link sighs, relaxing, his hands instantly latching onto Ghirahim’s waist, rubbing the cloth of his bright yellow sash between his thumbs.

“I just worry about you sometimes. You’re...” He laughs, quiet and awkward, trying to distract himself. “You’re soaking wet.”

Ghirahim’s voice is a low purr over his throat. “Is that really a bad thing?” He smiles as he hears Link swallow, but it falls when Link pulls away from him, skittish and scrambling for a drawer. He’s there seconds too long, arms moving in jerky, awkward motions, and Ghirahim can see the red tips of his ears twitching through his hair. By the time Link turns back to face him, a long red cloth in his hands, Ghirahim is already smiling again.

“What’s that? Oh, Link, come now, I’m not going to catch a cold.”

Link shakes his head, unraveling it and loosening the silver chain binding the cloth closed. As the ends fall to the floor in thick scarlet clumps, Ghirahim recognizes it as Link’s favorite traveling cloak. He was wearing it the day they met, hood up and red pooling over his arms, and Ghirahim has envied it ever since.

“I know, but... just wear it for me, okay? It’d make me worry a little less.”

Ghirahim shakes his head. “Fine. Only because you remembered red is my favorite color.” Link smiles, relieved, and presses the cloak into Ghirahim’s arms, where he holds it tight for a moment, close to his heart.


	4. Replica

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghirahim escapes and meets Fi.

Diamonds flit through the trees, lightning-quick, scarlet and gold slicing through endless green. Ghirahim crashes onto a branch hard enough to make it creak in protest. He doesn’t allow himself more than a second’s pause; he braces his legs and springs, soaring upwards, dissolving as soon as he touches the air. His core pulses with nervous energy from its place deep within his chest. Time is precious. If Demise found out he escaped...

Ghirahim pushes the thought away. He’s so close; no longer is his destination a pinprick in the horizon, but a tower looming above him, proudly stabbing the sky. He dives for it. The fall is long, more than enough time to brace himself for the landing -- but he tumbles gracelessly onto the grass, feels the dull ache of rocks scraping his skin, feathers and the trilling cries of the Chirris falling about him. For once, Ghirahim can’t bring himself to care about his entrance; what matters now is that he’s here. He’s made it.

Years have passed since the last time Ghirahim laid eyes upon the Temple of Hylia. Looking at the stone gates, now darker and mossier than he remembers, he already feels like he’s won. He has gone through the scenario countless times: Hylia will be waiting for him. She runs to embrace him, sobbing, she’s so, so sorry -- she just needed time to find a suitable hero to help rescue him. The hero will be a strapping young man, with strong hands more than worthy to wield Ghirahim as he was destined. When he holds out one of those hands to shake Ghirahim’s, Ghirahim will feel as though he’s always belonged there, that nameless emptiness in his heart closing up and finally allowing him to feel whole. And as late as they both are, too late to spare him years of humiliation and loneliness, too late to save him from being branded by the demon king, Ghirahim will forgive them out of the goodness of his heart. Together, they will overthrow Demise in a long, bloody battle and win Ghirahim and this world their freedom. It will be a tale worthy of legend.

Ghirahim had planned to walk in with the most pathetic expression he could muster -- just so he could properly see their guilt -- but he can’t stop the smile from spreading across his face as he pushes open the doors.

Hylia is not waiting for him. There is no immediate sign of the hero’s presence, either; birdsong echoes through the temple walls, but it appears that it is otherwise empty. Ghirahim snaps his fingers, slamming the gate shut behind him as he walks further inside. Little has changed. An extra crack in the stone here, moss growing there -- he used to hate the temple’s unchanging familiarities, resented every pebble or leaf he memorized over the course of his training, but today, he revels in it, wrapping his arms around himself in elation. The forest fills his ears and lungs. He’s finally _home._

But Ghirahim soon discovers that something _has_ changed, something far more important than stone or moss. His happiness splinters into anger when he comes upon his old resting place and discovers the sword now occupying it. It’s quite an impressive sword, he grudgingly admits, even if the color scheme is atrocious. But its design was clearly inspired by his own -- this -- this _thing_ is a mere shadow of his beauty, and here it is, lodged in _his_ pedestal -- as if it had any right to be there!

He marches forward, fully intent on tearing the sword out of his property and throwing it halfway across the forest. As soon as he touches it, its pommel glows with pale blue light, and a voice echoes in his ears:

“You are not my master.”

_Master?_

Ghirahim wrenches his hand away, dread rising up from the pit of his stomach. The blue light scatters, followed by the sword’s spirit, who gracefully flips out onto the platform across from him. The resemblance between her and his other form is unmistakable, but this being, gleaming cerulean in the blue and purple garb so clearly bestowed to her by the goddess, isn’t tainted -- not like that form, too far from its former glory for Ghirahim to even consider using anymore. He hates her all the more for it.

He hates her eyes, caricatures of his own, hates the steely way they assess him with no spark of personality to be found. Hates her toneless voice impossibly more when she speaks again: “Your name is Ghirahim. You are the prototype.”

Dread seizes his heart with icy chill. “Prototype?” He repeats, spitting out the word like a curse.

“Yes. You are the prototype model of the hero’s sword. Unfortunately, after you fell into the hands of the demon king, you proved to be an unreliable choice as the hero’s weapon. Alternative measures were necessary. Therefore, I was created to act in your stead.”

The energy coursing through his veins constricts, runs cold. _No._ He thinks desperately. _No, that can’t be... that can’t be the reason..._

But here it was, the mystery that had haunted him in that wretched dungeon -- she was floating right in front of him.

“He tortured me.” Ghirahim whispers, his hands shaking. “You... you think I didn’t try to fight? Or escape? I was trapped! Every day, I waited for Hylia, the hero... anyone to save me! Why didn’t they come? Why did they _abandon me?”_

Lightning hisses at his fingertips. The sword spirit ignores them, her voice still infuriatingly calm. “You were a liability. Saving you was an unnecessary risk to take, which your weak will confirmed. When you succumbed to the demon king, the goddess made certain not to repeat the same mistakes with the next sword she created.”

In sickening clarity, Demise’s cruel smile flashes before his eyes, and he remembers pain, pain, all that humiliating pain -- all that time he spent praying for his mother goddess and his betrothed master -- all of it, wasted. He’s come here for nothing. Left to oblivion because he was deemed defective. And this _thing,_ this soulless robot, was meant to be his replacement?

Hylia burns her way into his vision, laughing with Demise at her side. The plan had always been to ensure Demise’s defeat. Now she intends for Ghirahim to die along with him.

Ghirahim’s black blade materializes in his hand without him having to think. With a shriek of rage, he leaps forward and drives it into his replica’s chest. He wants her to scream, like he did -- wants her to hurt and know nothing else -- but she stares at him, her expression unchanged.

“I am not like you.” She says. Her voice is calm, matter-of-fact. She feels nothing. 

Ghirahim stabs the blue diamond again and again until it cracks.


End file.
